


Disappearing In The Fade

by winterlain



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Role Reversal AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterlain/pseuds/winterlain
Summary: A repository for short fics, prompt fills, and brain spew, because I have too many feelings about this pairing.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Disappearing In The Fade

Sergeant Little’s fingerends were cold as they found his hips, hastily rucking aside layers of woollen parade regulation, slivers of frost still clinging to brunet whiskers and eyebrows as the man’s knees hit the planks of the gunroom deck.

It wasn’t like Tozer to desire this, and entirely unbefitting for a first lieutenant now serving under the expedition’s new leader after having just laid the remains of its previous one to rest, to fuck an NCO and Royal Marine no less. God but he wanted this though, and evidently so did Little, from the enthusiasm with which the normally reserved squadron sergeant was mouthing hungrily at his prick, palming him through the linen of his drawers. Tozer pushed down the impeding garment with an impatient grunt, exposing himself to the cold fusty air and then, the direct, searing wet contact of Little’s mouth.

It was particularly obscene yet singularly irresistible to carry on like this, both of them still in full dress from Sir John’s funeral. Tozer found himself grateful that Little’s eyes were hidden from view beneath the brim of the bobbing shako cap, conches clinking as his jaw worked. His own cockade balanced precariously as he widened his stance and tipped his head back against the wall with a sigh. He reached down to sweep aside the multitudinous layers to allow better access. It wouldn’t do to leave damning stains that might test Armitage’s discretion; his steward had a tendency towards carelessness in fair weather, verging to outright pettishness in foul.

As a senior officer, he had been able to distance himself from most of the funerary undertakings on the expedition thus far, pragmatism dictating speed and simplicity in the small parties sent to provide the necessary dignity for each difficult burial. Today’s proceedings had been obviously unavoidable, the full dry pomp of Her Majesty’s Navy on display in the middle of nowhere, impressing no one. He had stared ahead past the rows of gleaming epaulets and willed himself to feel nothing, to become as numb as the skin of his eyelids and cheeks and lips, as sharp as the wind that froze them. And all the while beyond his blurred vision slept Caroline, inside the box he himself had made to hold her.

Two years, five months, twenty-seven days.

The gun-salute wrested his attention back to the fore. Sergeant Little ordered the company to shoulder arms, and it was done. Tozer’s eyes were drawn to the slash of red at the trim waist, the inscrutable dark gaze. Little was not a tall man, but built with a compact competence, an efficiency of form that imbued each tidy movement. His respect for command was genuine, and he was gentle and affable with the men, never failing to offer a sympathetic ear or a laudatory pat to the shoulder. If fault could be found with the man, it would be in that his touch ran more to honey than to vinegar.

Together they oversaw the return of the rifles to the armoury, Gibson corroborating the presence and condition of each issue with a mark in the logbook. As the last of the footfalls departed the narrow hallway, Tozer exhaled, long and audibly. He was exhausted, famished, and inexplicably, alarmingly concupiscent. Little’s fingers brushed against his sleeve with a familiarity that Tozer permitted when they were alone. The dark eyes regarded him levelly.

“Sir, isn’t there anything I could do for you right now?”

This was merely what their bodies needed, after all. Scraps of warmth and comfort. He stroked the cottony thatch of Little’s whiskers, the shell of his ear, felt hot breath escape from wet lips. Alive. He felt impossibly, preciously alive. Tozer’s eyes stung as he spilled down Little’s throat, muffling a choked noise into the back of his own glove.

Little swallowed him down diligently, just a cough and a swipe of his glistening pink lips needed to obviate any sign of what had transpired. He remained kneeling momentarily, gaze downcast, sensing somehow Tozer’s sudden and devastating need for privacy. He rose and waited for the lieutenant to finish rearranging himself, and then made to leave. Tozer caught his wrist, then his arm, shoulder, back, gathering him inwards until they embraced, pulse pressed to pulse in the still room.

“Please stay, just for a while.” Little nodded, and it was enough.


End file.
